


Snowfall

by Sophia_Bee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Kiss, Honor, Post-Canon, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 04:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12523508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: Jaime leaves King's Landing and ends up at Winterfell where he faces the Starks.





	Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> A little speculation on a first kiss. Thanks to my dearest Leafeylocket, who declared she "really loved it". I am again, shit with tags. xoxo

She still isn’t used to the cold. 

Brienne shivers as an icy wind gusts through the high walls of the Winterfell courtyard. She glances up at the sky only to see endless gray yet again. How many moons had it been since she had arrived here? Not enough to adjust to the bleakness of her new northern home. She misses Tarth sometimes, with its bright, sun-drenched colors, from the blue waters of the Sapphire island to its lush green meadows. There is no color in the north. Only cold gray upon gray mixed with black, dark days and dark nights, the walls of her room damp from the chill that never seems to leave this place. 

The courtyard is bustling as she strides through it, one of the cooks chasing an errant flock of chickens, a few boys striking at each other with sticks they imagine to be swords, their breath puffing in the cold from their exertion, three men standing by a grain wagon discussing which tower the Lady of Winterfell had told them to deposit it in. Brienne feels the weight of Oathkeeper on her hip as she makes her way to the great hall, passing under the crumbling towers of the expansive castle that have stood for generations. There is a sense of history and decay about Winterfell, something she never found at Evenfell, with its carefully constructed marble walls and airy arches that let in the sea air.

Brienne shakes her head, chasing away the memory and the regret. Tarth is long gone. She may never see it again. Not with winter here. Not with what lies to the north. Brienne shivers, not from the cold but from her memories. The sound of the wight screaming haunts her dreams. 

She would normally be training, circling around some inexperienced lad or lass, instructing them in the art of the attack, watching how they gripped the sword, the stance of their feet. Instead she makes her way to the great hall where the banner men gather, the Lords of the north, their faces stoic, their eyes hard. 

Today is the trial. 

She woke early that day. It was long before the sun rose and turned the black to an endlessly dull gray. Her brow had been damp, her nipples tight, skin prickled with goosebumps. She had risen from the straw palate in the simple quarters she slept in, her muscles aching, her joints cracking from the cold, seeking out the bowl of water sitting on her small table. She had brought it in from the well the night before and now it sat waiting, a thin crust of ice formed over its surface. Brienne broke the ice, dipped a cloth in the ran it across her forehead. 

She knew why she woke. She knew why she had fitfully tossed and turned long after the winter moon had risen high in the sky. 

_Jaime._

Brienne had felt her chest clench in the darkness of her room. His name was almost a whisper on her lips, but not quite. For she could not allow herself to say it. Not out loud. She dressed in the darkness, grateful for the thickness of her woolen clothes. She strapped on the armor he had given her, remembering the warmth in his eyes as he had pulled the drape back to show her his greatest gift. Greatest next to the sword she always wears strapped onto her hip. 

Today is the day. 

She knew he’d come to Winterfell. There were whispers in the corners, spoken with bowed heads, gossip in the kitchen, the stables. The Kingslayer had been captured. Chained. No Lannister army, just him. Hadn't he pushed Brandon Stark? Wasn’t that what they said about him in the back rooms if taverns over tankards of ale? A man who would hurt a boy? How could he even be called a knight? Place him in the dungeons; where he belongs. 

A party had found him a day’s ride away from Winterfell. They recognized him immediately, for who in the Seven Kingdoms didn’t know of Jaime Lannister and his golden hand? Who in the North didn’t know of the crimes of his family? They had bound him and led him to the castle. For the North remembers. Brienne had been training when they dragged him in. She did not follow the crowd, did not strain for a look at the spectacle. The King of the North had stood in the courtyard, fur around his shoulders, his face like thunder. 

“Put him in chains.” 

Man without honor. 

They did not know. 

He had told her a story once, on the King’s Road, what seems like a lifetime ago before the cold, snow and endless gray. They were only a day’s ride away from Harrenhal - not far enough, never far enough, even now. They stopped to make camp. Brienne’s wound stung and when she closed her eyes she could see the bear lunging at her. Their escorts cared little for the Kingslayer and the hulking, angry dirt-streaked warrior woman he had forced them to rescue. They muttered amongst themselves, casting glances their way. Brienne had not cared to think about what they thought. All she knew was she was alive. 

Brienne's lower abdomen cramped with her need to make water after a long day on horseback. Her muscles ached. She dismounted, ignoring the way the torn dress snagged on her saddle, hating the way it swirled around her legs. It was a reminder of how close she’d come to death. When she imagined dying, it was in battle. It wasn’t being torn apart by a wild animal. It wasn’t in a ripped and dirty ill-fitting frock. The garment felt mocking and she longed to tear it off, to wad it into a ball, throw it on a fire and watch it burn. 

Unbidden tears pricked at her eyes. Brienne fumbled with the strap of the saddle bag. She bent her head to make sure no one saw her eyes shining. She glanced around her, at the lushness of the woods, taking in the earthy smell of loam and rot. The leaves of the trees rustled, a bird twittered. They were near a creek. Brienne could hear it trill through the underbrush and suddenly she longed to be clean, for soap and water and fresh clothes. 

“Lady Brienne.” 

Brienne startled at the sound of his voice, low and gravelly. She swallowed hard, blinking back the tears, then turned. Jaime stood before her, ragged and weary, his face unsmiling, his eyes searching hers. 

“Ser…” Brienne had started, her voice coming out in a squeak. She stopped and cleared her throat. She wanted to say something, to find a way to thank him, the sounds of his boots landing in the bear pit still echoing in her ears. 

“Clothes,” Jaime’s words were light, his eyes glancing down, what worry he might have for her only betrayed by a small frown between his eyes. 

Brienne followed Jaime’s gaze to discover he was holding a bundle of garments and, on the top, a sliver a soap, holding his stump on top to keep everything from falling over. Brienne felt a rush of gratitude. 

“Oh.”

“I will make sure no one bothers you.” 

When she had made water and had scrubbed herself clean, almost raw, in the icy creek, she pulled on the breeches and tunic Jaime had given her, pausing briefly to wonder where he had found them, then made her way back to camp. The sun had almost slipped beneath the rolling hills and their escorts had lain their bedrolls on the ground, away from the light of the small fire Jaime now crouched by. Brienne found a downed log a few feet away and settled on it, dropping the discarded dress on the ground. She saw Jaime glance at the pile of fabric, a small furrow forming between his eyes. 

“I hope to never see you in a dress again.” 

His voice was light. His eyes were deadly serious, and she knows they are both thinking how close she came to death. Brienne swallowed and rubbed her hands down her long thighs feeling the softness of the breeches. Her throat felt tight. Her eyes stung. 

“Me too, Ser.” Her voice was hoarse, strange sounding in the quiet of the forest. 

“Ser…” Jaime repeated to himself, followed by a huff of a laugh. Better than Kingslayer, Brienne thought, but short of what he had begged her to call him as she held his feverish body and called for help not even a moon ago. He looked off into the darkness for a long moment then his gaze returned to her.

“How is your wound?” 

His voice was even, conversational. There was a look of concern on his face, the kind you see between brothers in battle, but this time for her. Brienne’s hand drifted up towards her collarbone and she touched the fabric of the tunic that covered the area. It aches, but she would not tell him that. 

“Clean.” 

It was the truth. Not all but part. Enough to satisfy his concern. 

“Good. I should look at it…”

“No,” Brienne’s response was sharp. He cannot touch her. She will not be able to stand the intimacy of his fingers on her skin. “I am fine, ser.” 

Jaime did not ask again. They sat in silence, Brienne stared at the fire, the darkness swallowing the forest around them. There was a rustle in the undergrowth. An owl hooted in the distance. After a long while, Jaime stood up and walked to where Brienne sat, her long legs stretched out before her, feet warmed by the fire, the rest of her chilled. He settled down next to her, handing her a piece of rough bread. Brienne took a bite and chewed, not really tasting it, too aware of the man beside her. 

“He used to rape her,” Brienne stilled at Jaime’s words. His voice was strange in the darkness. There was a soft snore from one of the bedrolls on the ground. 

“Who?”

“The king. His wife. I used to stand guard outside her chambers and listen to her scream.” Jaime’s face was grim and shadowed in the firelight. His lips pursed together. His words sounded like they were ripped from somewhere deep and painful. “I was sworn to guard him but, for some reason, not her? I could not save her?”

Brienne was silent. She searched for words but could find none that convey the horror she felt at what the king did and what Jaime had to endure. 

“At least they did not rape you.” 

There was relief in his voice, as if he might be able to atone for his inaction. Brienne’s heart clenched. What he has endured, what the world cannot see, took her breath as surely as a hard hit with a broadsword in battle. 

“No, Jaime.” Brienne said softly, saying his name with great care, wanting to take away some of the weight this man carried. Weight no one knows and no one sees. “They did not rape me.” 

Now he is in chains. The knight who rescued her; the one who saved a whole city from the Mad King; the King’s Guard who has borne the burden of betraying his oath; the man who knew there was no honor in a husband raping his wife, is in chains. 

She wants to see him. She wants to go to the Lady of Winterfell and beg her to ensure his well-being. The Maid of Tarth says nothing. She rises early and trains all day, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. She sits, ever watchful, in council meetings and advises Sansa. She listens to the whispers, the tales people tell of the fate of the Kingslayer. A day passes, then two. On the third day the Lords of the North start arriving, Banner men for the King, sworn to House Stark. Finally after four days, Sansa strides into the Great Hall, the tallow candles on the walls burning low, a smell of smoke in the air, and calls for the Kingslayer. To her left is the King of the North. To her right, Arya Stark, her face grim, her fingers resting lightly on the Valyrian steel dagger she always wears at her hip. Behind them comes Bran, staring passively into the crowd as a servant pushes his chair. 

It is time for the trial. 

“It is time to judge the Kingslayer,” Jon Snow announces to the packed hall, his voice clear and strong. “And while I am your king, it is not truly me this man has wronged. It is my family. My sister will determine his fate.”

Jon turns to look at Sansa who glances back and nods almost imperceptibly. She stands and Brienne sees she wears the gown with the Stark sigil embroidered at the shoulder. For a moment she is all Catelyn Tully in her strength and fury despite her surname, despite the sigil she wears. Brienne know Catelyn would be proud. 

“Bring him here,” Sansa’s voice is clear and strong, her jaw set. Her hair is fire in the bleakness of the Great Hall, her eyes cold. “Bring me Jaime Lannister.” 

So it begins. Brienne swallows and glances at the woman she is sworn to serve, and for a moment she cannot guard her face. She knows the shock she feels is on display for anyone who dares to look closely. She quickly stuffs it away, swallowing the fear that suddenly clenches in her chest. 

“Let him pay for his actions.”

The echoing room fills with murmurs, people shuffling a little, heads turning. There is the sound of footsteps running from the hall. Brienne does not move. She remains standing just to Sansa’s side, staring over the crowd, and after what feels like an eternity, they bring him in. 

Two men escort Jaime Lannister into the Great Hall, stopping ten feet from the table where the Starks sit. Brienne stares at the floor until she can no longer bear not to look. She lifts her head and sees him there before all the lords and ladies, kneeling on the ground, arms chained behind his back, pulled so tightly it must hurt. He looks bedraggled from too many nights sleeping on the ground, mud-spattered and road-weary. His hair is unkempt and he has a ragged beard. Brienne realizes he is wearing only traveling clothes, nothing declaring him House Lannister, and a realization hits her like the side of a broadsword in battle. 

He has left her. 

Jaime lifts his head to look up at Sansa, a smile on his face. 

“You’re looking well, sister-in-law,” Jaime says smoothly. Even dirt-streaked and worse for wear he is all charm and ease, ever the Kingslayer to the world. 

The Lady of Winterfell is silent, her eyes fixed on the Kingslayer. Brienne stares across the room, her mouth pinched in a scowl, her eyes glancing over at the profile of Sansa Stark, her pale skin like snow, her red hair like fire and her eyes as cold as death. 

Sansa will extract a price. Brienne swallows as panic starts to well up. He should not pay. Not this debt. Not for the sins of his family. Brienne stares ahead, seeing nothing, thoughts tumbling through her head. 

Sansa Stark sits stoically at the head of the Great Hall, not a queen or a lord’s lady but the leader she was always meant to be. She opens her mouth and with her voice strong and steady, starts to recite the list of charges against Jaime Lannister, a list that will surely end with his throat slit. 

“The death of my father, Eddard Stark.”

Brienne’s stomach twists. Jaime will pay for the sins of his cruel bastard king? 

“The betrayal and death of my mother, Catelyn Tully Stark.” 

Protest wells up in Brienne’s throat. It had not been Jaime’s sword that sliced open Catelyn Stark’s throat. He had kept his oath to protect her daughters, not taken her life. 

“The death of my brother, Robb Stark, his wife and their unborn child.” 

_No._

Brienne feels panic with Sansa’s every word. 

“The slaughter of the Stark forces.”

“NO!” A voice rings out. It is only when all the heads in the great hall of Winterfell turn her way that Brienne realizes it is _her_ voice. Sansa turns, leveling a cool gaze in the direction of her sworn protector. 

“Lady Brienne?” 

“We can use him.,” Brienne blurts out, her heart pounding. 

The whole hall is silent. All eyes are on the Lady of Tarth, all but one pair. Jaime Lannister still kneels, staring at the floor, not moving a muscle.

“Lady Brienne?” 

Sansa’s eyes are hard with revenge, her tone clipped. Brienne feels her cheeks flush. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. 

“The White Walkers, m’lady. Ser Jaime is castle-trained. There is no better swordsman. I should know. I fought him.” 

_Thrust, parry, her hand grips the hilt of her sword. Her opponent is good. Better than her. But he is weak, chained. Sweat beads on her brow. She lunges forward, attacking. He answers in kind. Her arm aches, her thighs protest, her breath comes in short huffs. He will not best her. He will not…._

Brienne swallows, her heart beating against her ribcage, her mouth dry. 

“He is a man of honor. I swear….” 

“He is a Lannister,” Sansa spits out his family name like a curse. Lannister. They killed her father, destroyed her family, and now this giantess of a woman is asking for what… for mercy?

Brienne swallows. Yes. She is asking for mercy. 

“He saved me,” Brienne says quickly, fighting to keep her voice even. 

Sansa’s face softens a little at Brienne’s words. It gives her courage. Maybe… just maybe…. She takes in a deep breath, makes her voice strong.

“More than once.”

A pause. Unbearable silence. The room stares at her. He saved her. She would save him. She takes in a deep, shaking breath then dares to continue. 

“He is not his family.”

Brienne turns towards Sansa, unable to stop the edge of desperation in her words. She looks at the Lady of Winterfell, strong as the ancient unbending stone walls of the castle she calls home, fierce as the wolf that represents her family. 

“He is not the Queen.” 

Sansa remains silent. 

“Do not make him pay their debt.” 

Sansa looks thoughtful for a moment then glances over at Bran who is looking at Jaime with a strangely passive curiosity.

“There is one debt I know he owes.” Sansa’s voice is cold. “Bran…”

Bran does not answer his sister. Instead he gives Jaime a thoughtful look. After a long moment, he speaks. 

“The things you do for love, Ser Jaime.” 

Brienne sees Jaime flinch at Bran’s words. 

“You pushed me from the tower,” Bran says slowly. His eyes narrow and for a moment there is a far away look on his face. “I saw you… you and the Queen. I was just a boy and you pushed me. You made me this way.” 

Jaime’s shoulders sag. Brienne feels her throat tighten with fear. This is one debt he truly does owe. He took the legs of an innocent boy. Jaime lifts his head and gives Bran a long look, his eyes haunted. He opens his mouth and says one word. A simple word that sounds like it is torn from somewhere deep inside. A confession. 

“Yes.”

No apology. No explanation. A faint sad smile twitches about Brienne’s lips. This is the man Brienne knows. This is the man of honor she is asking to be saved: a man who does not shy away from his crimes. There is integrity in Jaime Lannister that he hides from the world. He shows it now, facing Bran, admitting to his crime. 

The hall murmurs, there are a few gasps at the confirmation of what has long been rumoured. 

“I am the Three Eyed Raven because of you.” 

Bran turns to look at his sister and a look of understanding then passes between them. “I do not ask for payment, Lady Stark. Let this man live. He has a part to play” 

Brienne lets out a long breath. She squeezes her eyes shut ever so briefly and thanks the Seven, the Lord of Light, the Old Gods, whoever she can. Sansa pushes her chair backwards, a loud scraping sound filling the hall, her long black winter cloak flowing from her shoulders, her face stern and unyielding. 

“You will swear loyalty to the North, Ser Jaime.” 

“Yes, Lady Stark.” 

“You will fight for House Stark.”

“Yes, Lady Stark.” 

Sansa turns to look at Brienne. 

“Lady Brienne says your are honorable, Ser Jaime. If you prove otherwise, she will pay a price.” 

Jaime finally lifts his eyes to look at her. Their eyes lock and he does not move his gaze back to the Lady of Winterfell as he agrees to this term. 

“Yes, Lady Stark.” 

Brienne lets out a breath. Jaime Lannister will live. 

“Your mercy is great.” 

“No, Kingslayer. I lost all mercy long ago. I would kill you right here, have my sister slit your throat the same way they slit my mother’s. The Lady Brienne is who you owe your life to.” 

Jaime turns looks at Brienne again. 

“Do not fail her.” 

Their eyes lock. Brienne cannot look away. 

“No. Never.” 

A vow.

The chains are removed. Jaime stands stiffly, swaying slightly, then he is gone, led away into the back of the crowd. 

The gathering moves to other topics. Winter stores. Another blacksmith is needed. Brienne provides updates on training, fighting to keep her voice steady, ignoring the way her hand trembles. Finally the meeting comes to an end. Brienne can leave, escape to her quarters where she can let her tears fall. She stalks out of the hall ignoring the stares and whispers. She saved the Kingslayer, vouched for a Lannister. The night is bright with snowfall, but Brienne does not notice. Her quarters are on the other side of Winterfell. She strides faster, through a doorway, down a dark hall, out though a smaller deserted courtyard. She crosses to the door that leads to her quarters, and it is there she stops. Because he says her name. 

“Brienne.”

Brienne stills. She bows her head and closes her eyes as a sharp pain shoots through her chest. 

_Jaime._

“You followed me.” 

She waits, dreading what comes next. Do not, she silently prays, do not make light of this. _I cannot take it. Not when I am so shaken._ Brienne stares at the door, frozen in place. She cannot turn and face him. He will see too much. He will know. 

“Yes. I followed you.” 

His hand presses lightly on her shoulder. Brienne jerks and the entire world compresses down to that one touch.

“You saved me.” His voice sounds raw. 

She squeezes her eyes shut.

“How could I not, ser?” 

Her chest rises fast and hard, her breath puffing into the cold air. Brienne thinks of all they have been through, all they have meant to each other. She thinks of the bath, of the truth in his words. She thinks of how she has seen his fear, his vulnerability, and most of all, his honor. She continues, her voice steady. 

“All they see is the Kingslayer. I know differently.”

She is shaking. His hand is still on her shoulder. 

“I know you.” 

She hears Jaime’s sharp intake of breath. He moves closer and she should step away but she cannot. His breath is hot against the back of her neck, his body so close. 

“How could I not try?” Brienne repeats, “How when you have saved me so many times before?” She twists to face him, their faces inches apart and Brienne cannot hide the feelings she has been carrying. 

“How, when I….” Her voice trails off before she can spill out her truth. He searches her face for a moment, his brow furrowed, then his green eyes meet her blue and she watches as he realizes what she cannot say aloud. 

She saved him because she loves him. 

“Oh,” Jaime says, his eyes wide, then another ‘oh’ but this time it is filled with what sounds like wonder. He stares at her as if seeing her for the first time. His surprise becomes something else as he gazes at her. Jaime opens his mouth but no words come out for a long moment, then when they do, they are unexpected, filled with so much tenderness and care that Brienne feels as if she might shatter into a million shards of joy. 

“My beautiful Brienne,” His voice aches with regret. 

Tears sting her eyes. Her mouth twists. _Beautiful._

“How long?”

Brienne flushes. She cannot find the words to answer his question. Jaime Lannister stares at her. Beautiful, scarred, battle weary, honorable Jaime Lannister. Her Jaime Lannister. Silence. Hearts beating. Chests rising in time. Brienne finds her voice, and just as he told her his truth in the bath what feels a lifetime ago, she tells him her truth. 

“For a long time now.” 

Ever since the wedding that ended with the cruel death of an even crueler boy king. Ever since his lover stood before her with a sneer on her lips as she spoke the truth. 

_But you love him._

Ever since he came back and she scrambled up the wood wall, the sound of the bear’s roar ringing in her ears, her foot slipping off his back as she tried to find purchase. 

Ever since she held his wet slippery skin against hers and called for help, his breathing raspy and labored from sickness. 

_My name is Jaime._

Ever since she crouched next to him, wiping the sweat from his brow, listening to his ranting, trying not to retch at the putrid stench of his fetid stump. 

He is a man of honor. 

Their eyes lock, wide with surprise. She should protest, for how could this man want the hulking warrior Maid of Tarth? She says nothing because suddenly she finds herself slammed into the wall next to the door to her quarters, his weight pressing on her, his thigh slipping between hers.

The Kingslayer and Brienne the Beauty. 

He kisses her in the snow, the flakes lingering on her eyelashes, his mouth warm against hers. The sky is steel gray and tinged pink with snowfall. There is no moonlight, just the never ending dull gray of winter. He kisses her in the snow of the North and everything she’s been using to hold herself together around this man comes tumbling down. 

_Finally._


End file.
